As a writer, there is no greater reward than knowing your words, especially your poetry, are acting as a bridge to other people’s souls. I never set out to be heard. I wrote because I had too much inside me and nowhere safe to put it. I wrote in whatever situation I found myself; good moments, in bad ones, in between doubt and hope. I wrote for myself first, thinking my words would simply stay where I left them. They didn’t. Little by little, messages began to arrive. Strangers telling me my writing met them in hard seasons. Someone saying life was treating them badly, and my words made them feel better. Someone else asking to recite my poem in their own voice. Writers wanting to grow beside me. People waiting for me when I went quiet, checking in, hoping I was okay. It surprised me. It still does. There’s something unsettling and beautiful about realizing that your private pain became public comfort. That words you wrote on days you were tired traveled farther than you ever did. That while you were doubting yourself, your sentences were holding someone else together. Some messages were joyful. Some were tender. Some were simply, “Are you still there?” Those ones made me smile. They reminded me that writing doesn’t stop speaking just because the writer stopped. Influence doesn’t disappear when you step back. Words linger. They breathe on their own. There’s something humbling about realizing that while you were just trying to stay afloat, your writing became a small lifeboat for someone else. To read the remaining, click here https://open.substack.com/pub/sweetaurora7008/p/private-pain-public-comfort?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android&r=61lj4d